


Brunhild and the Guy From 403E

by TheLastGoodGoldfish



Series: LoVe AU Week [3]
Category: Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Apartment AU, F/M, Fluff, LV AU WEEK, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 12:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14044368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastGoodGoldfish/pseuds/TheLastGoodGoldfish
Summary: Veronica doesn’t care. She’s way too sober and way too tired, and there’s dog pee all over her bed sheets, which is somehow only the fourth worst part of today.LoVe AU Week - #7 - "You Should Only Wear This"





	Brunhild and the Guy From 403E

Even well after midnight on a Saturday—or early Sunday, now—Veronica is aware that she’s taking something of a risk, traipsing around the laundry room in this get up. It’s truly a testament to how little she cares that she heads downstairs at all, much less dressed like a _maitre d_.

“There’s a lesson to be learned here,” she says to no one in particular—the spiders lurking in the corners of this muggy, glorified closet, maybe—as she yanks her bed clothes out of the plastic laundry basket, gathers them up in her arms, “Next time—spring for the _ensuite_ washer and dryer.”

It’s an empty advisory: Veronica can’t afford one of the apartments with _ensuite_ laundry, since she pays for a parking spot and Los Angeles rent is probably the only thing more absurd than Los Angeles traffic. But, once again, Veronica doesn’t care. She’s _way_ too sober and _way_ too tired, and there’s dog pee all over her bed sheets, which is somehow only the fourth worst part of today. She really truly just does not give a fuck at all. The President of the United States could walk into the laundry room _right now_ , and she would probably tell him to fuck off.

Okay, bad example, she doesn’t need to be washing urine off her bedding at 12:37 a.m. while wearing a goddamn tuxedo in order for _that_ to be true.

But the point still stands—

“And here I thought you were going to say, _buy an extra set of bed sheets_ ,” says a male voice from somewhere behind her.

Of course, she couldn’t luck out and have this whole episode go down unwitnessed. That would be just too much to ask.

Veronica had known that, with the laundry room just off the main lobby, there was always a chance that someone, stumbling in from a late night, would accost her here and bear witness to her wretchedness. The knowledge had even factored into her decision–making process about whether to change out of this ridiculous outfit before coming down to use the machine. But in the end, as previously mentioned, Veronica was completely out of fucks to give, and she’d strolled on down anyway. And the gods have punished her hubris with some asshole’s unsolicited commentary on her living habits.

Without turning to face the rude and patently unfunny newcomer, she begins stuffing the sheets into the washing machine. “Oh, snap, good one,” she deadpans. “Super helpful.”

Frankly, after a long and tiresome day that ended when she came home and found herself obliged to strip the bed and run laundry, she’s not in the mood to defend herself, nor to be genial in the face of a useless male. So what if she’s handling dirty bedclothes in the middle of the night, wearing novelty formal wear? It’s not like she cares what anybody else thinks.

Seriously, as long as it’s not the hot guy from 403E who always smiles at her when they pass in the lobby, she doesn’t even care if...

Veronica doesn’t finish processing that thought, because—she already knows.

It is most _definitely_ the hot guy from 403E standing behind her, because that is just the kind of goddamn day that it has been. It could hardly be anyone  _besides_ the hot guy from 403E standing behind her, and in all likelihood, he’s judging her choice in wardrobe and thinking her incontinent. Fan-tas-tic.

Sheets stuffed in the washer, Veronica turns around to face her fate.

And, yep, there he is alright: the attractive male who lives in apartment 403E, who always smiles at her when they pass in the lobby. He always holds the door for her, too, and last week, he gave her his umbrella, because he was stepping in as she was stepping out and it had just started to pour.

At the moment, he’s leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets and—in a slightly amusing coincidence—he is also wearing a tuxedo.

He looks vaguely apologetic for a fraction of a second, before he registers the fact that they’re wearing all but matching outfits, and then his face breaks out into a grin as he says, “Hey there.”

Christ, he’s hot. Tall and muscled and radiating charisma.

His brown hair is pleasantly tousled, tie hanging loose around his neck, and this is _so_ not how Veronica had planned on seducing this guy. She’d had a whole outline—just a mental one that she used to amuse herself on long car rides, not like a _written_ one, she’s not some kind of creep—and NO part of it included stifling androgynous clothing or puppy urine.

She should probably take this time to reply politely to 403E’s greeting—maybe apologize for snapping, or mention the umbrella she has yet to return (it factors pretty heavily into the seduction plan). However, Veronica was tragically born without the part of the brain that prevents a human from being a wise ass at any given moment, so she mirrors his pose, jerks her chin at him and says, “I hope you were the groom.”

Hot Guy from 403E doesn’t miss a reference or a beat, “Diane Keaton called—she wants her suit back.”

—Which just _completely_ throws a wrench in Veronica’s seduction plan… a strategy that largely assumed 403E was as dumb as he is attractive, a sort of good-natured jock with a thriving social media presence in search of a kayak-friendly girl to go on parasailing tropical adventures with—and, pending his introduction to such a Happy Go Lucky All American Sweetheart, was down to fool casually around with the nearest over-worked, over-caffeinated private investigator.

(It’s entirely possible that most of this conception of the man stemmed from the fact that Veronica glimpsed a surf board in the back of his car when passing him in the parking lot once, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Despite the recent annihilation of her admittedly shoddy seduction plan, Veronica favors 403E with a dry smile and turns back to the washing machine, half angled so she can see him push off the threshold while she measures out liquid detergent.

“Wedding?” she asks, as he wanders into the laundry room. He’s lazy and relaxed, not at all as he usually appears—rushing in or out of the building, often at the same ungodly hours as Veronica—and the effect isn’t altogether bad.

He nods. “Yep. You?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Here I thought you were moonlighting as a butler.”

“Oh no, my buttling suit is far less formal,” she tells him. Then, for no discernable reason, feels compelled to add: “I just attended the _worst_ wedding I have ever been invited to.”

403E is a fidgety type, picking up an abandoned sponge of questionable cleanliness from the folding table and examining it idly. “Ex?”

“Nope. A friend from college. You?”

“Friend from grade school.”

“Groomsman?”

“Best man.”

“I was a groomsman,” she tells him. “This...” gesturing at the tux, “is meant to be _cute_.”

He puts down the sponge and smiles winsomely. “It is.”

Veronica looks skeptical.

“Honestly,” he insists. “You should—only wear this.”

“I look like I’m going to the Grammy’s.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, the Grammy’s are in January. This would be for the VMAs.”

Veronica rolls her eyes. She pours the detergent into the tray and says, “It was supposed to be _quirky_ ,” hoping that her tone conveys the fact that none of this was her idea. Truth be told, however, she _had_ thought the whole concept of wearing a tailored tuxedo--her, Mac, and Wallace as groomsmen for their old friend--was kind of sweet. It’s just that everything that's happened subsequently has turned her against the scheme.

403E nods sympathetically. “Gotcha. How many decorations were repurposed garbage?”

“ _All_ of them. _All_ repurposed garbage.”

“Signature cocktail?”

“Limoncello and gin.”

“Vodka and grapefruit for me,” he says, then, rather gracefully, pushes himself up to sit on the dryer. “So I fully intend on circling back to why this was the worst wedding you’ve ever attended,” he goes on, while Veronica tries to focus on the machine settings. What is she washing again? Fuck it, just put it on _permanent press_ and hope for the best. “But first, gotta ask—laundry in the middle of the night?”

Veronica presses start, then smiles sarcastically up at her companion. "Would you believe I'm covering up a murder?"

"That was my first guess."

“I have a new dog. He missed me this afternoon.”

“So he committed murder?"

“Only to the bedsheets. And of course I was _supposed_ to do laundry tomorrow, so these are already my back-up sheets.”

“My condolences.”

Veronica bows her head in thanks. She folds her arms and leans one hip against the machine to her right. “Thanks for letting me use your umbrella the other day. I meant to give it back to you...”

“I have an extra, and don’t think you’re getting out of explaining how this was the worst wedding you’ve ever attended.”

Veronica chuckles. “Fine. Starting from the bottom...” she ticks items off on her fingers, one by one, “I was designated driver so I endured the whole thing _stone cold sober._ Second, I’m wearing a tuxedo—and if you think yours is uncomfortable, imagine it’s as tight as mine and you’re wearing heels…”

“Noted.”

“And, last but not least,” she counts on her third finger, “the groom tried to convince me to run away with him.”

403E’s face lights up. “ _No_.”

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

“I _know_.”

“So did you go?”

Veronica breaks and laughs in spite of herself, and when she does, some of her outrage seeps out. “We were friends in college,” she tells 403E, though she hasn’t any reason to, except that it’s a ridiculous story, she really should tell _someone_. “We were a _group,_ me and him and a few of our friends, but Piz and I weren’t—I don’t know, I didn’t think we were _that_ close anymore. I haven’t seen him more than... once a year probably since graduation, and he lives in San Diego. I met his fiancé... or wife, I guess now... probably twice? So I was completely blindsided by the whole thing."

“Poor girl.”

“I mean I’m fine, but...”

“Not _you_ , the bride.”

“Oh, right, yeah. Sucks to be her. I tried to pull the fire alarm to postpone the wedding, but it wasn’t working.” 403E raises his eyebrows, and Veronica shrugs. “What? I don’t _know_ the girl, but I don’t think anyone wants to marry somebody who goes around propositioning their groomsman two minutes before the wedding!”

“So what happened?”

“Well, I pulled the fire alarm, the fire alarm wasn’t working—major safety hazard, by the way, I spent like an hour on the phone with the property manager during the reception... mostly because I was hiding, but also because it’s a major safety hazard... but anyway, after I pulled the alarm, Piz—that’s the groom—Piz thought I was trying to postpone the wedding to, y’know, take him up on his offer, and then it was even _more_ awkward, and when I told him he was out of his mind, he played it off like it was nothing, he just had cold feet, and then... everything happened so fast, suddenly someone was playing a crappy cover of _Here Comes the Sun,_ and wham, they were married.”

403E nods slowly. His hands—which are tanned and long fingered—perch over the corner of the dryer beneath him, and Veronica is briefly distracted watching him drum out a rhythm against the metal. “So I take it you _don’t_ wish you’d taken him up on his offer?”

Veronica shoots him a look that should dispel any questions about _that_.

403E grins. “I can't imagine why. He sounds like _such_ a nice guy."

“At one point, he accused me of leading him on... by being a groomsman. In his wedding. To another woman.” She shakes her head and hopes that someday she will cease to be surprised by the levels of delusion some people can reach. She reaches down and unfastens the buttons on her sleeves, loosening the fabric around her wrists. It’s warm and humid in here, especially with the machine going, but she’s not quite ready to leave.

Somewhat inexplicably, 403E says, “He should be glad you didn’t pull your gun on him.”

Veronica stops fidgeting and frowns. “Huh?”

“Well you’re a cop, right?”

“Huh?” Veronica repeats, very intelligent, truly doing her graduate degree proud. “No. I’m not a cop. Why do you think I’m a cop?” Does she _look_ like a cop? Does she exude police energy? The thought is disconcerting. Maybe it’s all the leather jackets...

403E pokes out his lower lip, surprised and a touch apologetic again. “Sheena in 217B said you were a cop.”

“What? I’m...” Veronica stops correcting him though, when the words actually sink in. Then she smirks. “Why were you talking about me to Sheena in 217B?”

403E makes complete, unflinching eye contact with her, his mouth curved upward so she can guess the exact meaning behind his words: “To track down my umbrella, of course.”

“I see.” Veronica clocks a faint fluttering sensation in her chest, but nearly misses the involuntary step she takes closer, so that her knuckles are almost touching his knees. “Well, you were misinformed. I’m a private investigator. I work for the Sullivan firm.”

His eyes, which are a wonderful warm brown, widen ever so slightly, and his smile expands, spurring another entirely adolescent spate of flutters. “Well is it at least true that your name is Brunhilda?” he asks.

Veronica is very solemn, “Just ‘Brunhild.’”

“Cute. Suits you.”

Again, she breaks first. Extends her hand to shake, “Veronica.”

“Logan.”

“Well that’s a little cleaner than ‘The Guy from 403E,’” she admits. Releases his hand when it starts to become a matter of social necessity. “I don’t suppose you’re actually a writer, like Doreen in 102C says?”

She’d pictured him authoring endorsement-laden articles about rock-climbing for a trendy outdoors web-based publication, but her revised assessment is having trouble nailing Logan from 403E down to anything more substantial than _Knows How to Wear a Tux._

“Depends on who you ask,” he says. “I’m a reporter for the _Times_.”

“The _L.A._ Times?”

Sarcastic: “No, the _Temecula Times_.”

“You scoff, but I'm sure there's plenty of news to be had in Temecula."

 _A reporter, huh_? A reporter with a sense of humor and, equally important, an appreciation for Veronica’s own brand of humor. This puts her in a bit of a fix, as they say.

According to _the plan,_ she was going to return his umbrella, ask him over for a beer while wearing her little Stanford tank top, and then just kind of—see where things went from there. _Okay so maybe this wasn’t so much an elaborate plan as a vague daydream that she used to kill time in traffic_. Still, she has little doubt that such a strategy would be effective now (with some obvious wardrobe modifications), but somehow the whole gambit suddenly seems a lot riskier.

“Well,” says Logan, hopping off the dryer. “I should probably get to bed, and you should probably finish your laundry.” He taps the washing machine indicatively, then returns his hands to his pockets.

There's a sinking feeling in Veronica's belly, but she rallies and says, “Never let it be said that I’m not living the dream.”

Logan snorts. “I’m kidding. I’ve got extra sheets you can borrow. Leave that stuff for tomorrow.” He twirls and walks backwards toward the lobby, and Veronica could laugh with relief, but she doesn’t, because that would be stupid, because until two minutes ago, she’d been referring to this guy as the Hot Guy from 403E—and sometimes “Dirk” in her traffic daydream, but she really doesn’t need to ever tell that to anyone—and there’s no sensible reason as to why she should want to prolong this day any more than it’s already been prolonged. And yet...

“I already have your umbrella,” she says. “Aren’t you worried I might start hoarding your stuff?”

Logan from 403E shrugs and tilts his head. Squints adorably with one eye. “You’ve got a trustworthy face, I guess, Hildie.”

Veronica pushes off the washing machine and starts towards him, shaking her head. “Your judgment is questionable, 403E, but you’re in luck tonight. Bring the sheets around to 313B and there’s an umbrella and a slice of wedding cake in it for you.”

Logan follows her out into the hallway. “Say it’s chocolate, and it could be love.”

The fact that Piz and Delia went the route of a double fudge cake (confusingly baked in the shape of a wagon wheel) has suddenly become the only thing about that damn wedding for which Veronica is grateful.

She shrugs. “Come by and see.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fluffy little nonsense AU because I couldn't help myself. And only BARELY late. <3


End file.
